


Holding Steady

by rowanashke



Series: Domestic Bliss is Totally Overrated [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1347298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowanashke/pseuds/rowanashke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John didn't fall apart. Not once. Time marches on. Things happen. And John tries very hard to pretend he didn't realize he loved him until it as too late. And then it's not, maybe. </p>
<p>(Johnlock, multiple POVs, right after tRF but totally ignoring season 3.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding Steady

**Author's Note:**

> Quick note on series:
> 
> This series is going to be Johnlock (kind of sort of) from the start and eventually fall into Sherlock-John-Greg (Is there a name for that? I dunno). Updates will be whenever I feel like it (depending on my stress level) but updates will always be in a short-story format. Stories will occasionally be R rated but mostly for graphic language and nasty bits on crime scenes. There will probably be no graphic sex scenes, unless I really get a wild hair up my bum.
> 
> Oh, and I am totally not English. So please feel free to politely snicker if I get a slang term wrong here or there.
> 
> Italics indicate either thoughts or stream-of-consciousness spewing. 
> 
> Also, especially in the first story, all the choppy sentences and run-ons and the like are intentional and done for dramatic purpose, so please don’t hammer me with them, yahok?
> 
> I’m late coming to this fandom, but I’ve fully embraced it. I have yet to see season 3 because (Netflix sucks) I’m still waiting for it to be available on streaming, but I already know I’m going to spend half the season going noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo and I seriously hate Mary already.

John didn't fall apart.

He didn't fall apart at the coroner’s, when he was asked to identify the body pale skin, black curls, they cleaned up the blood but he could still see it, still smell it. He didn't fall apart at the funeral pitifully few people, but then they didn't put it in the papers did they Mycroft Lestrade, Sally Mrs. Hudson poor Mrs. Hudson, she can’t stop crying. Molly, _none of them were his friends because Sherlock didn't have friends go home go away let me let me_

He didn't fall apart at the flat, either. He waited three days, and then began to clean up Sherlock’s mess-the scientific experiments, the weird chemicals, the body parts. Once he was done the flat felt empty and weird. He considered redecorating but it seemed like too much work.

He left the skull and the violin right where they’d been.

Life proceeded. That was a good word for it. Marched on, steadily, dragging John along with it. He worked full-time at the clinic, ate a lot of take-away. He started seeing one of the nurses at the clinic, Mary, and she was nice.

Everything was.

Just.

John managed to ignore the fact that his leg was hurting again, and that he was using the cane again. He managed to ignore the panic attacks that were becoming a regular part of his day. Almost routine. He also managed to avoid being concerned about the nightmares that had resurfaced, reducing him to sometimes four hours of sleep a night.

Life was.

Lestrade kept in contact and they went out for beers occasionally. They discussed cases, they discussed politics, they discussed Anderson’s apparent fall off the deep end of the pool.

They never discussed him. It wasn’t something they decided, it was just something that happened, the understanding between them. Even Lestrade’s upcoming divorce was discussed, after several beers, but never him.

Then they fell into bed together and that became another thing that just wasn't discussed. John, thinking about it, decided it was a weird mix of the beer and mutual loneliness. Nothing to worry much about. Stranger things had happened. He put it out of his mind, and Greg didn't even seem to remember it, so it was fine. Just. Fine.  
For two years, everything was.

John finally got around to asking Mary if she’d marry him. He did it the whole romantic way-roses, candle light dinner, a fancy restaurant. She said yes, everyone was terribly excited. John pretended hard enough that he almost believed it, but the closer the wedding came the harder the sleep became and the more the panic attacks happened until even she couldn't pretend not to notice. The fighting started about that time, and the yelling. John spent a lot of nights back at the flat.

After a tense discussion, the wedding was called off and John went back to the flat for good. He wasn't surprised to find that his panic attacks lessened, although they didn't go away entirely.

And life was.

And then, on the anniversary of that day, John nerved himself to go to the grave again. Clutching a bouquet of flowers from Mrs. Hudson, he stared almost resentfully at the smooth, polished gravestone, engraved with his name and nothing else. _It should be raining or snowing or something. Too nice, it’s too nice a day for me to be standing here glaring at a headstone head full of sand from dreams bad dreams where I see you die over and over and damn you damn you to hell_

_Love_

He can’t say the word. It just won’t come out. Shaking his head, he bent and placed the flowers on the grave, noticing that someone else had left flowers recently too. Probably Molly; even after all this time, he suspected the squeaky woman was still in love with him. The grass had been neatly trimmed. It was good-he’d not have been able to bear it if the grave got all yucky. _Have to come back more often and make sure. Sherlock would never tolerate a messy grave. Lacks style._

He straightened, then sighed. “I loved you, you git.” He said it all in a rush, air escaping, flat and almost angry. “I didn't even know it. Did you? I bet you did. You knew everything, you bloody bastard. Cock sucking asshole mother-fucking god damn fucking son of a bitch…”

He never swore. It was almost cathartic to stand there and call Sherlock every name he could think of. He didn't even know he knew all of those words. Soaked up in the military, he supposed.

When it ran down, he fell silent, and then sighed a little. “Sorry,” he muttered to the gravestone, then immediately felt like a random git. _Apologizing to a gravestone. I really am losing my mind._

“I should say. I’m a little shocked, actually.” The voice said behind him.

John froze. It felt like all of the air had been punched out of his lungs. Still, John didn't turn around. He didn't lift his head. “Well, someone had to say it. You were a total bastard, you know.” His voice shook only a tiny bit and he was proud of himself for a moment.

“Turn around?”

“No.” John clenched his fingers on his coat, keeping his eyes on the words and trying to ignore the shininess of the stone. If he looked he could tell and _he didn’t want to tell losing my mind he’s not behind me but I haven’t heard his voice all this time yet so now I know for sure I’m losing it shit I shouldn't have stopped going to therapy._

“John. Turn. Around.”

“No.” John said stubbornly. _Think think think concentrate he’s not there he’s not there think_

Cool, slender fingers brushed the back of his neck, right where the coat gaped to reveal his sloppy t-shirt. “Please?”

“Ah, now I know you’re not him,” John said a bit breathlessly. “He never said please.” _I’m losing my mind and god, oh, god, please I want it so bad stop being dead please_

“I did too.” Sherlock said, sounding affronted. “All the time.”

“Yes, when you were trying to manipulate me,” John shot back. _Arguing with my ghosts. My therapist would love me now. Seriously._

Sherlock gave a little huff, and in John’s mind, he could see the amusement in his friend’s sharp blue eyes, the little curl of his thin lips. He suddenly realized that he didn’t care. Mental or no, he had to know.

And John turned around.

“Hello.” Sherlock said quietly, still smiling a little. “It’s good to see you, John.”

John hit him.

.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.

Later.

Mycroft thought the whole thing was incredibly amusing and said so. Mrs. Hudson, once she got over her heart attack, was fluttering around. A bag of frozen peas sat on the table. They recently had been resting over Sherlock’s eye. That had been the third thing she’d done-first she’d fainted. And then she’d hugged Sherlock, And then she’d gotten him peas. And then, much to Mycroft’s amusement, she’d told Sherlock off for making them all sad.

Mycroft had appeared at the graveyard, waiting patiently by the car. Clearly he’d known all along, the bastard, but he refused to answer any questions.

And John was.

Sherlock was watching him with a carefully blank face, assessing, ticking off the differences, deducing him like he always had, every frown, every twitch, knowing him inside and out and knowing what he was going to say _except that sometimes John could surprise him come out of the blue and say something so quietly brilliant it took Sherlock’s breath away and Sherlock just wanted to push him against the wall and kiss him until they both fell apart_

John was pacing, slowly, cane forgotten for the moment against the wall. _His leg’s been hurting him. Psychosomatic limp, as before. No new damage. Thinner, a little shaggier. Haircut still military, but he’s got a five o’clock shadow. Recently was wearing a ring on his finger but he’s removed it. Yes, yes, Mycroft told me about the short engagement. Bags under his eyes-not sleeping. Nightmares. Slight tremor in his hand still; he’s nervous and unhappy. I caused that. It’s my fault._

_I missed him._

“…out of the blue like that, love.” Mrs. Hudson was saying, shaking her head. “Here, tea, just the way you liked it. I still remember. Oh, how we missed you. Didn't we, John? The flat wasn't the same without you banging around up here, causing all kinds of messes. I know you had your reasons, but…”

“What were they?” The first time John had spoken, and the tone caught Sherlock’s ear. Quiet, a little sad. None of the anger he had expected and braced for. Even the punch had lacked force, more of an automatic reaction to surprise. _A soldier’s response: hit first, ask questions later. But he should be angry. Why is he not angry?_

“What were what?” Sherlock said, automatically deflecting, still watching John’s face.

“What were your reasons?” John said, mimicking Sherlock’s precise, biting tone.

Sherlock sighed, but he knew that look on John’s face. Unless he could tell them, he’d not get anything done. And there were things to be done.

_Sentiment aside. He had to remember that. Sentiment aside._

It was hard, when it came to John.

He’d have to work around it. No sense in denying it anymore. _Compensations. Distractions. Deductions._

“DI Lestrade should be arriving any moment now,” Mycroft said. Oddly soothing; he was trying to keep things easy, Sherlock recognized. It didn’t stop the automatic disdain Sherlock felt _I love you I hate you I love you I hate you_ but he saw the effect on John and was…

Well, grateful, he supposed.

They sat in awkward silence. John turned his back and stared out the window and Sherlock unashamedly studied the curve of his back, tracing his eyes over the so-familiar lines, trying to deny the hunger he felt. Not sexual; oh, it was there and he wasn’t a fool enough to try to deny it but mostly just the hunger _to be with him, around him, hearing him bitch about the ears in the freezer and tell him how amazing his deductions were and chide him for the nicotine patches and throw a shoe at him when his violin playing got obnoxious and scold him when he accidentally was mean to someone because he didn’t care about social niceties and please, John, I need you. Please be my friend. I need you._

In the two years he’d been gone, chasing down the web of criminals left behind by Moriarty, Sherlock had lots of time to think about John and the shape of his heart. John occupied a place in his mind, a room in his Mind Castle, that no one had ever managed to breech. Not even The Woman, even though she was…important. But not necessary. John was necessary in a way that terrified Sherlock when he realized the depth of his attachment. No one had ever gotten to him that way.

He could have come back last year. But he’d needed more time to fit all the pieces into place and to study the picture they made. A new picture, a new shape for William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

_I need you._

_Please._

.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.

Greg was having one of those days. The coffee was too hot, the chair decided to break, the files got lost. Sally was being a total bitch-he very quietly and very carefully edited all mental comments concerning her ‘time of the month’ from his mind and sent her away as soon as he could manage it. Since Anderson had left she’d been harder to deal with, and Greg was starting to think that maybe she’d been in love with the guy.

_Weird world.Then again, I suppose there’s someone for everyone. Except, apparently, me._

He sighed and shifted in his borrowed chair, glaring futilely down at the divorce settlement papers. She was getting more than her fair share and honestly Greg could have probably fought it down but he was just so…tired of the whole thing. He wanted it done. _Over. Finished. Get out of my life. I’m done. The paper-boy for christ’s sake? He was what, seventeen? You’re bloody lucky I can’t prove that or you’d be facing charges, you bitch._

Still, it kind of rankled that the bitch was demanding his car. His car. His pretty baby.

He shook his head, then signed the damn thing. Fine, if she wanted it that way, she could have it. He’d just buy another one.

His phone, sitting on the desk, buzzed to announce a text. He ignored it for a moment, then sighed and swiped it off the surface. His luck it’d be Sally bitching about something. Or maybe a case; god, he wanted a case. Not one of the weird ones though. I always stand there with my thumb up my arse and think, What would Sherlock do? And then I feel like a total git because I have no fucking idea. Half of the cases that are still on the unsolved list would have been wrapped up by now if he was still here.

_God, I miss him._

Lestrade. Come to my home. I need your help with a new case. –SH

Lestrade stared at the message a moment, his brows slowly furrowing.

No.

It couldn’t be.

The man was bloody _dead._

He’d been to his damn _funeral_ and spent the last two years watching his best friend crumble apart at the edges, unable to help but unable to not see it.

And now…

And now. And now.

Heads turned in shock when Detective Inspector Lestrade suddenly let out a giant laughing whoop and dashed out of his office, his coat in one hand, grinning like a deranged lunatic.  
“Detec…” Dimmock started to ask, looking flustered.

“He’s back. The god-damn bastard is back.” Lestrade whooped again.

“Who?” Dimmock demanded.

“Sherlock! Sherlock fucking Holmes!” Still grinning, Lestrade ran out of the office, leaving the rest of the police to stare at each other in wonderment and a touch of fear.

Except for Dimmock, who mouthed the word several times before suddenly stopping, his eyes going wide.

“Sherlock” he breathed.

.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.

Mycroft, sitting in the back where he belonged, _never in the front, always in the shadow manipulating them like puppets_ was watching his brother watch John and feeling…

_Ah, feelings. Complicated things. For the most part Mycroft was above such things, but even he had his moments. His little weaknesses. And Sherlock was one of them. His dear little brother, always at odds with him, always fighting against him. Resenting him. He’d taught him a lesson, all those years ago, but it had backfired in a way that, even today, Mycroft deeply regretted._   
_He’d meant to show Sherlock to distance himself from emotional ties._   
_He’d not meant for Sherlock to cut himself off, to fear those ties._

Mycroft allowed himself to fetch a tiny sigh. _Regret. I believe that ismy biggest feeling for Sherlock. Regret. So much potential wasted. Brilliant, I can’t deny it, but handicapped by his emotional fragility. To deny oneself the honesty of your emotions is to close off part of your mind. I don’t deny my emotions. I acknowledge them, use them, and move on. Sherlock fears them, and as long as he holds that fear he won’t ever be everything he could be._ And Mycroft knew it was mostly his fault. He could accept both the blame and the knowledge that there was nothing he could personally do to fix the damage. Too much interference on his part would only exacerbate the problem. He could only hope for external influence.

Still. His emotional response to John was a good start. If this John Watson could accept Sherlock’s feelings, then perhaps it could work. Mycroft admitted to himself that he’d made a mistake: he’d underestimated John Watson rather badly when they’d first met. He’d dismissed him, believing that, like most people caught in Sherlock’s web, John would struggle free and fly away.  
How wrong he’d been. And Mycroft had never been so glad to be so very wrong.

Still. This was a delicate moment, a fulcrum of the past and the future. And once again, as with most moments like this in Sherlock’s life, Mycroft was hampered by Sherlock’s steady, unwavering resentment. He must be careful, tread lightly, touch gently. The more pressure he brought to bear on his brother the more Sherlock would balk. He’d proven that in the unfortunate affair of Mrs. Adler.

Ah, Mycroft recognized another emotion: Anger. Anger for Sherlock, not against. Yet another time Mycroft had bungled. The man who held the destines of more than one nation in his hands could not seem to err on the side of caution with his brilliant, broken, beautiful little brother.

The Detective Inspector’s arrival broke his train of thoughts and he watched in slightly surprised amusement as the man burst into the flat, spotted Sherlock, and immediately went for a giant hug. He hadn't been aware of the depth of Greg Lestrade’s feelings for Sherlock-he’d never made a study of the man as he had Watson, but clearly he was more important than he’d realized.

Sherlock even suffered Lestrade to hug him, patting his arm and greeting him with only a tiny bit of disdain for the overly emotional outburst.

Greg flung himself in the chair and grinned madly at Sherlock. “Tell us how!” he demanded, a young boy eager to hear the magician’s tricks.

.0.0.0.0.0.0.

John blinked as Lestrade arrived, noting that Sherlock seemed glad to see him. Shaking his head, he turned, then scowled at Greg’s demand.

“No.” he interjected, not really noticing how Sherlock stiffened, or the question in his blue eyes, because he couldn't quite bring himself to look the other man in the eyes. Not yet.

“Tell us why.” John brought his hand up, scrubbing it restlessly through his short blonde hair, then sighed. “Why first.”

Sherlock shifted, and then he too sighed. “I did what I did to save your life, John.” His voice was quiet, rich and rolling, each constant clearly stated-all normal-but John could hear the tension under his words. Unusual tension. Almost begging _Sherlock doesn't beg, he made that quite clear so he can’t be begging what would he be begging me for why why tell me why_

“To save all three of your lives, actually.” Sherlock turned, giving Lestrade a bland look. “Doctor John Watson, Mrs. Martha Hudson, and Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. No one would ever suspect there was some kind of connection between the three of you…except for one man who knew me perhaps better than anyone else in the world.”

Mycroft shifted, and Sherlock ignored him.

“You. You three people, in all the world, are the only three people I…:"

John lifted his head, surprised. Sherlock didn’t stop in the middle of sentences. Nor did his voice get so soft, so careful, so…

“I cared about.” Sherlock said after a moment.

There was a silence in the flat then, Mrs. Hudson beaming, Greg and John gaping, and Mycroft…what? John couldn’t describe the look on Mycroft’s face. Too complicated for him to begin to unravel.

“You were all three marked to die if I did not do as Moriarty insisted. There was no way to save you. Moriarty killed himself to ensure I had no way out. If I hadn’t…did what I did, you would have all died. There wasn’t any way to even warn you. They never would have stopped. Even if you’d managed to avoid the first round, they would have kept coming. They had orders.”

“Ok.” Greg said after a minute. “So you pretended to throw yourself off the building. I get that, very noble.” Sherlock made a face and Greg grinned at him, “But…why two years? Why did you wait so long to come back?”

“Oh, my.” Mrs. Hudson sighed. “Never boring with you boys, is it?”

“No, my dear Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock said, smiling gently at her. “I can promise you: I am never boring.”

“No, just insufferable, arrogant, rude, childish, and a total asshole.” John snapped. Sherlock’s eyes snapped to him, the smile fading off his face. “Why two years, Sherlock?”

“I had to eradicate the network Moriarty left behind. I had to make sure that my emergence would not put you back into the very danger I tried to save you from,” Sherlock said, still watching John’s face. “Until I knew it would be safe, returning would have negated everything I was trying to do.”

“Why didn’t you at least call?” John snapped, squaring off with Sherlock. Raising his eyes, he met Sherlock’s beautiful blue-green eyes, his own eyes snapping with anger. “Why didn’t you let us know you were alive? We could have-we would have-kept your secret. Do you know what you did? Two years, Sherlock. Two bloody years thinking you were dead and feeling like crap and carrying around this…this weight of guilt because I left you, I fucking _left_ you and I…” _And I loved you, and I didn’t even know it until I watched you throw yourself off that fucking building and hit the cement and I had to identify your body and I had to learn how to walk again and damn you damn you I can’t I can’t_ John didn't realize his eyes had filled with tears, or that Greg was staring at him with wide, tired eyes. All he could see was Sherlock, Sherlock's eyes, his face, his hair, his  _being aliveness_...

Sherlock stopped John’s words the easiest way he could think of. Sherlock’s lips on his effectively stole John’s rage, his words, his breath, and his brain-power. The detective didn’t kiss like he was a virgin; he kissed good, excellent, _oh, my god Sherlock is kissing me and his brother is right oh god, I can’t not kiss him back I’ve never wanted needed anything more than this why why Sherlock all that wasted time_

The kiss ended. The silence stretched on.

“Aaaaawkward…” Greg said finally, flushed. “Seriously, if you two need some time alone or something…”

“Oh, Detective Inspector,” Mrs. Hudson chided him. “You went and spoiled the mood.”

I _forgive you, you prat_

_I know._

_I love you_

_I know_

_Sherlock…_

_I love you too_

They didn’t need words. The conversation flowed between them, bright and clear.

Sherlock smiled, gently touching John’s cheek with his cool fingers. “There’s work to be done,” he said softly, his eyes lit up from the inside with that special glow that previous to this John had only ever seen him show for The Work _but that’s for me, just this once, all for me._

“Always.” John replied, grinning like a fool.


End file.
